


Interviewing Alexander

by Macedon



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1995-05-07
Updated: 1995-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-09 08:43:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macedon/pseuds/Macedon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted by a joke, Janeway resurrects Alexander the Great in order to learn something about command from one of the best commanders of all time.  But her pet general isn't content to stay passively in his cage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first contribution to alt.startrek.creative and, while hardly my first story, it was my first piece of fanfic. It was written towards the end of Voyager's first season. At the time, I was on an old VM style system and couldn't figure out how to upload documents, so I simply wrote the original "live"—online—in seven parts, posting as I went. I viewed it as an exercise in first drafts and sticking to an outline. The current version was revised slightly for spelling errors but the story itself remains essentially the same. The historical details presented are as accurate as we can know.
> 
> Originally posted at the [Trekiverse](trekiverse.org/efiction/viewstory.php?sid=3610) archive.

"Interview Alexander."

It had begun as a joke—something Paris had tossed over his shoulder on the way to the turbolift at shift-end. Janeway had been bemoaning the difficulty of keeping up morale in the Delta Quadrant, only to have Paris quip, "Interview Alexander."

"Lieutenant," Janeway had said. Paris had halted with the lift doors open. "WHICH Alexander? We've got two on the ship: Ensign Alexander in astrophysics and a maquis crewman."

"I didn't mean somebody on the ship. I meant the Gross Alex. You know, Alexander the Great." And the doors had whooshed closed.

Janeway had glanced over her shoulder at Tuvok. "Alexander THE GREAT?" Tuvok had just given her one of his 'I'll never understand humans' expressions. Beside her, Chakotay had chuckled. "What do you find so funny, Commander?"

"The mental image of a modern _female_ starship captain trying to interview a Greek about leadership. The Greeks were so misogynistic, they wouldn't even ride mares into battle."

"Alexander OF MACEDON was not a Greek," Tuvok—the ever-precise —had said from his station.

"Whatever," Chakotay had replied. "Close enough for government work."

Janeway had twisted her neck in time to catch Tuvok's raised eyebrow, then covered her mouth to hide a smile.

That should have been the end of it. A joke. But somehow, the idea just kept spinning wheels in her head. Interview Alexander. Perhaps it had been the insouciance of Chakotay's amusement, his assumption that Alexander would not take Janeway seriously, that had kept her worrying mentally at the question.

Oh, Janeway knew all about Alexander of Macedon, Wunderkind. "General by 18, king by 20, conqueror of Persia and master of most of his known world by 26—dead before his 33rd birthday. And what have you done with your life lately?" That was the traditional litany with which Admiral Ashbrook opened his lecture on Alexander in Terran Mil-Hist 1 class. Everyone at the Academy had known what he said, could even repeat it with him. Yet there was something about the line which still had the power to knock the wind out of one. It was precisely Alexander's youth which made him fascinating. Not what he had done—amazing enough itself—but who he had been: that combination of Homeric hero with something new and fresh and utterly novel. He had possessed charisma in spades.

He had led a ten year march of conquest from Greece on the Aegean Sea to the banks of the Indus River—a distance of 50 longitudinal degrees—and his army had followed. They had been so far from home, they had not known where they were; they had thought the Indus flowed somehow into the Nile. But still they had followed. When in India they did finally mutiny, it had been only to make him turn around. They had not wanted to get rid of him.

His army had mutinied twice, in fact: that time in India, and once more back in Persia. The second time was the only mutiny in history that she knew of where the soldiers' complaint had been that their general was sending them _away_ from him. Not quite a year later, when he had lain dying in the heat of a Babylon summer, his soldiers had become so surly at being kept from seeing him that his marshals had been forced to knock out a wall in the bedroom where he had lain, so they could file past to pay their last respects. When he did die, his empire had promptly shattered into fragments because none was his equal. Forceful, calculating, shrewd, flamboyant, charming, brilliant, mesmerizing, and never defeated in battle...there had simply been nobody quite like him.

Interview Alexander. Yes, she could learn something from him, but "What am I supposed to do?" she wondered aloud to no one in particular, "Resurrect him out of a history book? Conjure him from a copy of Arrian?" And yet, the very fact she had asked the question meant she was thinking about a way to do it.

***

"Computer," she said later in her cabin, "check database for information on Alexander of Macedon, dates 356-323 Before Common Era. Monographs and articles, non-fiction only, spanning 1850 to the present."

The computer blipped and purred, then produced screen on screen on screen. Janeway was floored by the flood of citations. "What is this? A small cottage industry in publishing on one person?" She had known he was important; she had not guessed he was _this_ important. "Arguably the most famous secular figure in Terran history," one scholar had said.

But how on Earth (or in the Delta Quadrant) was she supposed to interview a man 2600 years dead? The holodeck immediately popped to mind, but holographing fictional characters into existence was one thing. Holographing a living person was something else entirely. All the computer could do would be to project a synthesis of scholarly debate and archaeological data. But no synthesis could be _the_ Alexander—the man known for pulling military rabbits out of hats (or out of kausias). To create a holoimage of a living person, one needed a recording, a sigmund, and half a dozen other collections of data which created a program like their own ship's doctor. Janeway did not want to talk to a synthesis. She wanted ALEXANDER.

She pondered the problem for several days until she finally remembered something, a tidbit of classified information from a mission a century gone concerning an archaeo-scientific artifact called the Guardian of Forever. The then-captain of the Enterprise had come across a machine-being called "The Guardian" who had been able to play back, like a holoshow, aspects of the histories of various worlds. The then-science officer of Enterprise had, with his tricorder, recorded some of what the Guardian had shown. But due to the delicate nature of the Guardian which could allow interference in a planet's past, the information Spock had retrieved had been stored in an archive somewhere as "CLASSIFIED: Level 2B". Janeway had clearance for Level 2B. The question was whether anyone had bothered to put that data into Voyager's library.

Someone had. The next question was whether the portions of Terran history recorded by Spock happened to include Alexander's conquests. Anxiously, she accessed the file and sped through the contents.

There it was: "Alexander of Macedon, 356-323 BCE: record semi-complete"

Well, semi-complete combined with the analysis of generations of historians...it just might do.

"Computer," Janeway said, "Begin a synthesis of section 23.D from classified record Keeler-Alpha together with historical analyses of Alexander the Great and Macedonian studies from 1850 to the present. Store in holodeck memory under the title 'Janeway: Alexander.'"

It was time for supper. Rising up from the desk in her quarters, Janeway headed down to the mess hall.


	2. II

"Computer, run program 'Janeway: Alexander'."

She stood on black-and-yellow grid and watched him coalesce.

He was short, no taller than she. Intellectually, she had known he was short like Napoleon, but the fact of it caught her by surprise. He was fair, too, with a high ruddy color in his weathered face. It was a fierce face, looking older than thirty two years—not handsome, too individual to be handsome. He looked about himself, eyes flicking restless; they came to rest on her.

"Tis ei?"

He was speaking _Greek_. She had forgotten to program Terran Standard. "Computer, freeze program."

The figure froze as commanded. She walked over to him, circled him. He wore a linen tunic—a chiton—under a breastplate made of tooled bronze with a crimson-purple cloak attached, rounded at the bottom and shot with gold embroidery. Leather girdle-plates hung to mid-thigh and sandal-thongs wrapped to his knees. Short did not make him small; he had the muscles of a man who knew much exercise, and thick runners' legs. His dark blond hair was bound back in a white cloth filet. The diadem. Primitive. But utterly splendid.

"Computer, give program a knowledge of Terran Standard. And... give him full understanding of modern science and history." She did not have days to spend answering his questions. She needed him to answer hers. "Computer resume program."

The first words out of his mouth made her laugh.

"Aristoteles was...wrong," he said, seeming surprised.

"Aristoteles?" she asked. "Aristotle, you mean?"

He glanced at her, a wry expression. "Aristoteles is his name. You have brutalized it."

"Alexander—" she began.

"His name is...was...Aristoteles. Mine is aLEXandros. Not alexANder." He put the stress on the second syllable, not the third. In fact, the computer had given him an accent. Charming.

"King Alexandros," she said, trying it out.

"Just Alexandros. Anyone who must be called king to be one, isn't." She stored that away that tidbit. "And you are?" he asked.

"Captain Kathryn Janeway, of the USS Voyager."

"Captain? Interesting." But other than that, he did not miss a beat. With another brief glance around himself, he said, "Why have you brought me here?"

"King—sir...ummmm..."

"Strategos will do," he said. "It means 'general'. What an awkward tongue you speak!"

"Strategos," she echoed, chuckling. "In any case, sir, I 'brought you here' because I want to...interview you."

His eyebrow went up and for a moment, he reminded her strongly of Tuvok. "'Interview' me?"

"Yes. Voyager is stranded 70 or more years from home, with a crew composed of two elements: my own former crew, and a maquis crew who we rescued here in the Delta Quadrant. The maquis are—"

He made a cutting motion with his hand. "Yes, yes, I know. You programmed alpha quadrant politics into me."

She nodded, a bit bemused by how quickly he had absorbed concepts well beyond his time. He did not paralyze himself with amazement, or permit it to show.

"The situation would be bad enough with just a Federation crew," she told him now, "facing a trip of 70 years. But with two crews who were once enemies...?" She crossed her arms, stared at the hologrid floor. "You ended up more beloved by the countries you'd conquered than among the Greeks. I need to know how you did that. You marched an army more than a thousand miles across territory they'd never seen —and brought them back again. I need to know how you did that. Maybe I can find something in it I can use."

He nodded. "Maybe you will. But first, tell me more about this crew of yours and your situation."

"Computer," she said, "Two chairs, please." Two chairs appeared; she sat, indicated the other for him. He took it, again with no hint of amazement at its appearance. Then she began to speak, the words spilling out of her. She had needed this—to have someone else to talk to who had walked in the same shoes. How could she possibly confide in anyone from the crew she must lead? She had tried with Tuvok and it had put him in an impossible situation. She would not, could not, do that to him again. So who could counsel the captain, out here in the middle of nowhere?

Alexander made a surprisingly good listener, his large blue eyes focused on her in a way that said he took in every word. But that too was part of his legend: the king who had prescribed medical treatments for his officers and offered advice on the love-lives of his soldiers. A Macedonian Dear Abby. So she sat in the holodeck and poured out her heart to Alexander the Great.

"What am I going to do?" she concluded at last.

He leaned back in his chair and glanced up at the ceiling, as if communing with some private spirit. "Right now," he said, "you're going to go to supper. I may not need to eat, but you do. In the meantime, see if you can figure out a way to get me out of this... room." He gestured disdainfully at the hologrid-walls. "How can I possibly say anything about your crew until I can see how you interact with them?"

"I can't take you out in your present form. But...." She pursed her lips, tapped them with a finger. "If we load your program so it can remain running outside the room, you could observe, just not speak or have a form."

Crossing his arms, he nodded once. "That will do for the moment. Esto." Let it be so.


	3. III

He would not have said he was alive—not as he had once been—but he was certainly SOMEthing. With one part of his mind, he understood he was a holographic program, and what that meant. With the other, it made no sense at all. At least he had managed to convince the woman, Katerina, to find a way to allow him to run continuously, not be turned off. He was not a toy to be put in a chest, then pulled out again when the child wanted it.

The question which remained was how he could get out of the box he was in. His father had taught him there was an escape from every trap, even if it meant gnawing off one's own foot. That he was in a trap seemed evident to him. A very peculiar trap, but a trap. He had to escape from the holodeck, and he had to do it in some way other than the little PADD she carried with her where she had stored his program so that he could observe. He had seen enough of the crew, and of her interactions with them, to know exactly what he must do to acquire their loyalty.

Part of his mind thought, What about loyalty to the woman?

Loyalty to his captor? She had put him in this box, this cage. She expected him to dance for her like some trained bear. He was no one's pet. He was Alexandros. He had never before been captured, but it provided him with a new puzzle; he had always been good at puzzles.

Katerina did have a problem. He felt a little sorry for her. But he had a bigger problem. He understood that he was no longer in his world, or his _time_, for that matter. But she had given him a knowledge of this world where he did find himself, and a machine was a machine, whether a torsion catapult or a starship torpedo launcher. The how and why of things had been Hephaistion's passion with his engineer's soul. Alexandros was more interested in what he could _do_ with knowledge.

Katerina's world was a troubled place, as fraught with factions and little wars as his own world had been. Federation. Cardassians. Maquis. Romulans. Klingons. All back in this Alpha Quadrant where his own Earth was. Out here were Kazon and one renegade Cardassian. Destroying them would keep him busy for a while. Too busy to think about one terrible fact: he was alone. He was utterly alone.

But until he could figure a way to take control of the ship, he would help Katerina. As a scientist, she could answer his questions about the ship's computers, and holograms—enough for him to learn how to escape his box. He was well used to finding competent persons and letting them do their job. So he would help her, until it was time to take her ship from her.

One thing about the universe had not changed: it was survival of the fittest. And he was, after all, Alexandros.

***

When Janeway had been five years old, growing up in the old section of Boston, she had invented an invisible friend. It was a common enough practice for children, especially shy children, which she had been. Painfully shy and a loner. Her invisible friend had kept her company.

As he did now.

She had not told anyone else about Alexander. Alexandros, she corrected herself automatically. He hated to be called by his Latin name. His general opinion of the Romans, in fact, was amusingly disdainful. Even Augustus. "A spoiled brat who could not fight his own wars." "A spoiled brat who built an empire that lasted longer than yours," she had reminded him. Only to be treated to a most extraordinary temper tantrum. He could not bear critique any more than he could bear his Latin name.

She liked him anyway. He was hard not to like: a man of a dozen moods, endlessly interesting, insatiably curious. Sometimes she thought about introducing him to Tuvok, but never quite got around to it. It would be embarrassing for one thing, admission that she had taken Paris' flip comment seriously. But it would also mean she would have to share him, and she was not at all ready to share him.

So she kept his existence secret, though she often took "him" with her as she made the rounds of the ship, running as a program inside her PADD. She tried to take him interesting places. For his benefit, she made a visit to engineering and asked B'Elanna to arrange a review. It had annoyed her chief of engineering. "I've got work to do," B'Elanna had replied, voice on the edge of insubordination. But she had conducted the review herself.

"I like that one," he had said to Janeway later. "You can trust her to speak the truth. She may betray you, but she will not smile as she does it. No follower, but not precisely a leader, either. Allow her to go her own way; treat her as I treated Hephaistion. Engineers, whether they build bridges or starships, all seem cut from the same cloth. Don't issue them orders; give them requests. Flatter them. They'll fall all over themselves to give you what you want."

He spoke often of Hephaistion and his other officers and friends. He missed them, she thought—though he never said as much. She considered resurrecting one of them for him to talk to, someone with whom to speak Greek. But if she did that, he would not be hers. Instead, she found more and more free time to spend with him, to keep him company.

***

"Have you noticed how strangely the captain has been acting lately, Tuvok?" Chakotay had called the security chief into his office for 'a conference,' he had said.

Now, Tuvok leaned back in a chair, arms crossed, and replied with diffidence, "She has been under a great deal of stress."

Chakotay's expression was wry. "Betrayal does that to a body."

Tuvok breathed out softly. He would _not_ show emotion before this ex-maquis, even though his irritation was almost beyond his ability to leash. What could Chakotay understand of his reasons for acquiring the space folder? "I have served under the captain for four years"—a reminder as to just which of them knew her better. "In all that time, I have seen her 'under a lot of stress,' as you put it, a number of times. She has always handled it with admirable aplomb. That is why she is the captain."

Two could play at the game of subtle cuts.

If Chakotay realized he had been insulted, he did not show it. "And has she handled stress in the past by retreating from reality? For the last three weeks, over 90 percent of her non-duty, non-sleep time has been spent on that damn holodeck. She leaves only to eat, and sometimes, she even takes meals in there." He paused and rubbed his high nose. "That's not handling stress, Tuvok. That's running away from it."

"What are you suggesting, commander?" Tuvok did not like the direction this conversation was going. Had the recent mutiny given the Indian ideas? Tuvok did not look on what he had done as mutiny but as protecting her honor as captain. Perhaps he had been wrong; certainly he had wounded her trust in him. But the last thing he would have suggested was that she be replaced as captain. If Chakotay was leading up to a recommendation that they relieve her of command, Tuvok would personally escort the commander to the brig.

Now, Chakotay straightened and said, "I propose that we access the holodeck computer to find out what program, or programs, the captain is retreating into."

It was not what Tuvok had expected, but it shocked him no less. A person's holodeck programs were very much his or her own business, protected by privacy acts. Tuvok knew perfectly well that privacy could be superseded in case of holodeck addiction, but there had to be sufficient cause for the diagnosis. "What evidence do you have," he said now, coldly, "that the time the captain has spent on the holodeck has interfered with her ability to command? I believe you have none, commander, because there is none." He stood. "I see no impairment of her efficiency and until such time as I do, I will not be a party to any violation of the captain's privacy—or her authority. Good day, Commander." He stalked out.

"Dammit!" Chakotay slammed his hand down on his desk after the door closed. "You stiff-necked Vulcan. I'm worried about her." Then sighing, he picked up a PADD from the pile of reports on his desk.

What neither man had noticed was a steady blinking light on Chakotay's computer terminal.


	4. IV

When had she become a friend? Alexandros was not sure. He had never meant to make her a friend, but he was lonely, and he had never been able to tolerate aloneness well. She was all he had in this new world he inhabited, and she seemed determined to do kind things for him. She had taught him how to use the holodeck for himself, to explore various Federation worlds. She had taught him how to use the library, to entertain himself by reading. In this form, he needed no sleep—which was fine by him. Sleep had always seemed a waste of time: "Sleep and sex remind me I'm mortal." He had said that once as a joke but someone had remembered and written it down...one of the few things he had actually _said_ that was attributed to him. He had certainly never wept because there were no more worlds to conquer! Nor had he cut the Gordian knot. He had pulled out a pin in the yoke and untied the damn thing. But of course cutting it made much better story. He understood the value of a good story and bit of theater.

He reigned in his wandering mind and returned it to the problem at hand. Katerina. No, KATERYN, he corrected himself. She tried to do him the courtesy of calling him by his real name; he should do the same for her. He could not pronounce her last name. The initial consonant was impossible. So he called her Kateryn, which he could handle. Kateryn who had become his friend.

He was not in love with her; it was nothing so simple. She was eleven years his senior and he did not find her particular attractive. She was not ugly, just not attractive to him. In fact, he did not really think of her as a woman at all. It was too confusing to him: a woman in command. But she took it for granted and so did her crew. And, slowly, so had he. He did so by thinking of her as genderless. She was not a woman; she was simply herself.

She is also your captor, he reminded himself. She tried to be kind, true, but she still kept him in his box. "A genie in a lamp." He had read about genies. He would call them daimons: something less than a god but more than a human being. Was he not a daimon? Her daimon? After his death in history, he had been made a god—prayed to, worshiped, a symbol and a challenge...as Achilles had once been to him. He had become the measure of men's careers. Or of women's, it would seem. Yet becoming deified, becoming more than human, had made him less. Persian genies had no soul. Did he? He was a collection of binary code in a machine: a program. He was not _alive_. He did not sleep, did not eat, did not even need to piss. Nor did he need a body to be conscious—though he had become increasingly dissatisfied by being carried around on a PADD. He might not need a body but he preferred having one.

So, for all intents and purposes, he was a daimon, yet he _felt_ real; he felt alive. He still got lonely, and angry. He could still laugh, and learn things, could still enjoy seeing something new. And he could still cry, when he was alone and thought about the world he had lost. Who was there here for him? Who in this strange new time and place spoke his own language? Saw the universe as he did? He might have been given knowledge of modern history and science, but he still had the soul of a Macedonian born almost 3000 years in their past. That was his present. And Kateryn, for all her concern and her dance of attendance on him, saw him as a primitive. A barbarian. how funny, to be thought a barbaroi—he, a Heraklid!—by a _woman_ who was a descendent of the wild Celts to the north.

He could not stand the subtle patronizing; it was the patronizing which kept him thinking about a way to take this ship for his own. He would show them all that he was still Alexandros Anikeitos, Alexandros the Unconquered. There were a few things he had learned to do which he had not told her about.

At that moment, the Red Alert sirens began to whoop. Stored as he was, he did not hear them with physical ears but he heard them. One of the things he had learned was how to move about inside the ship's computer: a ghost in the machine. He could not yet physically leave the holodeck, but his program could escape. He moved up to the bridge where he could watch.

"Report!" Janeway barged out of the lift and down to her center chair.

"A Kazon ship, captain." Tuvok's voice was calm, the rock in the flood of human anxiety around him. "Off our port bow. Their weapons are powered up and shields raised—a defensive posture."

Janeway sat down in her command chair, wondering what the likelihood was that Seska was on that ship. Fairly low, if the truth be told. How many Kazon sects, each with their own fleets, must there be? She wished she had some idea of each sect's strength.

That's a new view, she thought to herself. Alexandros' doing. He thought in terms of army size and possible deployments. He had been, after all, a warrior king. His time might be gone but it was not a bad idea to continue to ask those kinds of questions. The Federation was no conquering empire, yet the Kazon seemed to savor battle for battle's sake. As bad as the Klingons, but thankfully not as technologically advanced.

"Any sign of other Kazon ships in this sector, Mr. Tuvok?"

"Negative at this time, captain. But I would assume this ship has called for reinforcements."

"No doubt. Hail them, ops, and indicate that we have no wish to engage in a confrontation. They can stand their weapons down and we'll do the same." Behind her, she heard Kim's voice softly carrying out her order. "Helm, mark a course to give that ship a wide berth."

"Aye, aye, captain." Paris' fingers flew over the board in front of him.

"They are moving to intercept, captain."

"Damn. Ops—what's the response to our hail?"

"No response, captain. Or, wait—they're hailing us."

"Put it onscreen."

The ship and backdrop of stars disappeared to be replaced by the face of the Kazon captain. Janeway always had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing at their appearance. They looked like Klingon Rastafarians.

"This is Captain Meer," the Kazon said. "You have invaded a Nistrim trading lane. We demand that you remove yourselves at once."

Janeway stood up. "Captain Kathryn Janeway of the USS Voyager." She spread her hands in a gesture of openness, or so she hoped he would take it. "We had no intention of invading your lanes, Captain Meer. We're simply passing through this sector. If you allow us to pass, you'll see that we won't interfere with your ships."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Why should you _not_?"

The Kazon turned his head and said something to one of his people in his own language. A short exchange followed, then he turned his attention back to the screen. "We have considered your request; it is unacceptable. Instead, we will transmit the coordinates of our shipping lane to your navigation. You will go around it."

"Fine, captain. As I said, we have no wish to invade your lanes if it can be avoided."

Paris spoke. "Receiving data now." There was a pause, then he turned in his chair to look at her. "Captain, there is no way around this; it's a complete wall between us and the Alpha Quadrant. It looks...it looks like they're trying to pen us in."

Janeway glanced back at the screen. Was the Kazon _smiling_ at her? He must know perfectly well there was no way around his coordinates. He was deliberately taunting her.

"Captain Meer, this...shipping lane...quite thoroughly crosses our route back to our home. We must request again that you permit Voyager to pass."

"And I'm afraid that I must once again deny that request, Captain Janeway. You will go around or...well," he shrugged artlessly.

What would Alexander do? Janeway was thinking.

Alexandros was thinking the same thing: What would he do in her shoes? Clever Kazon. If she crossed his path, it would look as if she had begun the battle but the Kazon captain had made it impossible for her not to cross. Alexander was reminded of Tyre. They had sat out on their island and _dared_ him to go past them: perfectly polite but refusing surrender, pretending neutrality. Yet as soon as he might have turned his back, they would have invited in the Persian fleet to cut off his communication lines. So he had laid a ten-month siege. Insane! his own officers had said, convinced he was being unnecessarily stubborn. Idiots they had been, not to see the truth.

There was simply no choice. She would have to go through the shipping lane—if there was such a thing in the first place.

"Captain." Alexandros' attention was pulled back to the bridge and the Ethiopian Vulcan. His mind told him that was a nonsensical description: Ethiopia was in Africa. But the man _looked_ Ethiopian. "There are four more Kazon ships approaching at warp four. They will reach these coordinates in fifteen minutes."

Make your decision now, Kateryn, Alexandros thought. Speed is the essence of victory. For himself, he had come up with a tentative plan. He had never been much of an admiral; his mind worked in terms of ground units, not triremes. But he had watched Nearkhos enough to know that it all rested with ramming...in his day. Now they had phasers and photon torpedoes and other means of striking an enemy at a distance: on-board artillery. They no longer thought in terms of _ramming_. Which gave him his idea.

Kateryn was dawdling. "Tuvok, what's our firepower and shield strength in comparison to that ship?"

You don't have time for this, Alexandros wanted to yell.

"The Kazon ship seems to be of the same configuration...."

Alexandros tuned out the Vulcan. _Move_, he shouted silently from the computer in which he hid. _Run him now._

"Kazon ships at ten minutes and closing, captain."

Still, she hesitated, paced, walked up to look at Tuvok's readouts. Finally, frustrated past his ability to keep silent, Alexandros in the computer found a speaker for his voice:

"RAM THAT SHIP!"

Everybody on the bridge jumped, looked around for the source of the order. Well, he thought to himself, so much for his hiding place. The boar was out of the bush. But if he did not do something, Voyager and her crew—and him, too—might not still exist in ten minutes.

Kateryn's face had flushed red with fury. "Alexandros Philippou! What are you doing on my bridge?"


	5. V

Chakotay's gaze crossed Tuvok's; his expression seemed to say, Well, you wondered what she was hiding. But at the moment, Tuvok had no time to think about that. He was pondering strategy. The odds of Voyager successfully out-maneuvering one Kazon ship were very good. Out-maneuvering five reduced the odds so low, he would simply have labeled it "impossible."

"Alexandros!" Janeway shouted to the air. "I haven't time for this right now. I have one Kazon in front of me and four behind me." And she turned her attention to Tuvok. "Mr. Tuvok," she said in that sing-song voice she took on when she was nervous, "You're my weapons officer—think of something."

"I am endeavoring to do so, captain."

"Omoi! Would one of you listen to me!" shouted the voice from the speaker. Alexander of Macedon—or a program of him. But how had a holograph escaped from the holodeck into the bridge computer? Tuvok did not have time to pursue that either. He was busy entering codes.

"LISTEN to me," Alexander said again. "RAM THAT SHIP."

"Alexandros," Janeway said, patient but with her eyes on Tuvok. "We can't ram the Kazon vessel. This is a starship, not a trireme."

"I'm aware of that—which is why I am telling you to do it. Nobody still fights naval battles by ramming...so he won't expect it."

Janeway spun around and stared up into the air. "...and if he's not expecting it...."

"He will think you're quite mad. It never matters if one looks like a fool before the battle as long as one does not look like a fool—or look dead—at the end of one."

"Mr. Paris!"—she moved to lean on the helm console—"We're going to play a little chicken."

Paris looked at her, then grinned. "Yes, ma'am!"

"I want you to head right for the Kazon ship, full impulse. If they move out of the way, move with them. Keep at them until the last possible moment."

Had the captain gone as mad as the Macedonian in the computer? Tuvok gripped his console. "Captain—our shields can hold off three attacks by the Kazon weapons, but after three, I cannot guarantee the integrity of the shields. Not at such close range."

"They'll fire once or twice—certainly not more," said the deep voice with the Greek accent. "They'll be too busy trying to get away from you to aim." The ship was already moving forward. "A battle isn't won on the strength of weapons, but on the strength of spirit—who expects to win, and who manages to catch the other by surprise."

"Psychology," Janeway said, seating herself in her command chair and locking on her restraints; Chakotay and the other bridge personnel did the same just as weapons fire lanced the ship. Tuvok gripped the handholds on his station. "Shall I return fire, captain?" His finger hovered, just waiting for the expected command.

"No lieutenant."

"Captain?" A second blast rocked the ship. The Kazon ship was filling the computer screen.

"Lock on amidships but do not fire until my order!"

The Kazon ship was moving, slowly, ponderously—disbelievingly, if one could say that of a vessel—backwards. "Keep a course?" Paris asked.

"That's right, lieutenant—until the last possible moment. Then I want you to go OVER her, not port, not starboard."

"Yes, ma'am."

The Kazon made a third attempt to fire, but it was more a sideswipe, ill-aimed, striking the shields a glancing blow that did them no damage. She filled Voyager's screen. "The third blast was ineffective, captain," said Tuvok.

"Right down her throat," Kim muttered from Ops.

The Kazon ship was still moving backwards desperately; Voyager pursued. Suddenly, the Kazon peeled sharply to port and fired just as Paris raised the nose of Voyager over the place Voyager would have been. The Kazon weapon sliced empty space. "FIRE!" Janeway shouted.

Tuvok fired at point blank range, catching the Kazon on its lesser-strength rear shields, full amidships. The Kazon tore apart in slow motion, then exploded with a spectacular burst.

"Very fine ramming job," said the accented voice from the speakers. He did not sound the least bit anxious—unlike the rest of the humans.

"You knew how the Kazon would respond," Tuvok said to the air. "I would appreciate an explanation of your analysis."

There was laughter. "Would someone mind materializing me? I prefer to look at people when I talk to them."

"Alexandros," Janeway said, "I don't think that's possible—not on the bridge. You have to be in a holographic environment."

"Maybe it is possible," said Kim. "I can configure my Ops station to mimic a holodeck within the area from station to wall. He can't move around, but he can materialize."

"Do it," Janeway—and Alexander—both said at the same time. Janeway looked at the air with an annoyed expression. "Sorry," said the Macedonian.

"There," Kim said, and moved back out of the bowl of Ops. Slowly, fitfully, a human figure materialized, wearing white chiton and purple cloak.

"Alexander Magnus," Paris breathed from the helm.

"No," said Janeway. "Alexandros Philippou Makedonon—anikeitos. Alexander the Invincible. Welcome to my bridge, Strategos."


	6. VI

Alexandros looked around himself. He knew, intellectually, that what he saw with his "eyes" was in fact no different from what he saw in his unmaterialized form. It did not matter, it was nice to SEE.

For the moment, Kateryn had turned away from him, bent over Paris at the helm. "Take us away from here, lieutenant: warp 9."

"Aye, captain."

On the screen, the stars seemed to stretch, expand, then melt together as they streaked past. "O Zeu!" Alexandros breathed.

"It's something, isn't it?" said the young man beside him. "Still gives me goosebumps."

Alexandros turned to study him. "You're Ensign Kim, yes? The... oriental."

"How do you know who I am? And yes, I'm oriental—Korean."

"I never got so far as China," Alexandros said, then grinned. "As for how I know you, Kateryn told me about her bridge crew—about most of the crew, in fact."

"And you remembered my name?"

"Of course."

The...Vulcan...was approaching him. "Mr. Tuvok," he said, trying not to stare at the ears.

Tuvok nodded politely. "My question?"

Alexandros grinned, crossed his arms. Kateryn had joined them, along with the tattooed man named Chakotay. The rest of the bridge crew were going about their business, but with the kind of single- minded air that said they were all listening HARD. From the helm, Alexandros overheard the one called Paris mutter, "'Interview Alexander' I tell her, and she takes me seriously!"

Kateryn gripped his arm; he had substance here. "Yes," she said, "I'd like an explanation, too. You did seem awfully certain of yourself. But more, I want an explanation of how you got up HERE."

"Why—I do believe you're upset, Kateryn. Don't like being out- thought by a mere 'primitive'?"

"A 'primitive'?"

"You programmed me with a knowledge of modern science—then assumed I was too limited by my place in time to learn how to use it. I may have lived 2600 years ago, but that doesn't make me a fool. Or an idiot. It was simple to learn how to move around the ship, once I understood how I exist now. I'm an equation in your computer—how Aristoteles would have loved that! His worst math pupil reduced to an equation! In any case, I already exist in the computer. That I could be carried around with my program 'running' was shown when you put me in your PADD. It was only a matter of learning how to climb around the ship inside the computer for myself."

Very slowly, she nodded. "You most certainly are not an idiot. And you're right—I have underestimated you. I apologize. I also thank you. You pulled another military rabbit out of a hat today."

"I...what?" He blinked, accessing that in the computer to which his program was still tied. "A rabbit." Then he laughed. "A rabbit! We would say that I anticipated Hermes."

"My question?" Tuvok said again, sounding rather plaintive.

"The Kazon, yes." Alexandros turned to face him. "I read your reports on them, studied the recordings of your battle at the array and your recent encounter with them over the Seska Affair. They—like many peoples—will maintain a threatening posture only so long as they feel themselves to have the upper hand. When directly challenged while standing below you—figuratively—they retreat. With four Kazon due behind, Kateryn did not have time to ponder the problem; immediate action was called for. Immediate THREATENING action directly against them. Put simply, a direct attack flustered them too much to respond adequately."

"We caught them with their pants down," Kateryn said.

"Or their khiton off," Alexandros agreed.

"A fascinating analysis, and quickly drawn," Tuvok said. From what Kateryn had told him, that was a compliment from a Vulcan.

"I'm glad you approve," he said, amused. "I pulled your ass out of the fire, lieutenant. Next time, don't analyze; you can't analyze fast enough. Use your instincts. Tactics are decided from here"—he tapped his belly—"not here." He tapped his head. "If you stop to think about it, someone will always get there before you. The time to analyze is BEFORE a battle. Strategy is analysis. Tactics...tactics are instinct. You're too much like Hephaistion; he thought everything to death. A fine logistics officer and diplomat. But I kept him as far away as possible from command in the middle of battle."

"Holographic programs are not sentient to have 'instincts'," said the Vulcan—who seemed rather offended by Alexandros' critique.

"Holographic programs may not be sentient but...I don't think I'm a program anymore."

"You're not a program?" this from Chakotay. He glanced at the captain. "Another one? First the doctor, now him." Chakotay turned back to Alexandros. "If you're not a program, then just what do you think you ARE?"

A very good question. Alexandros had not really had a certain answer himself until that moment. Now he knew. "I'm a daimon." He was indeed.

"A...what?" Their turn now to be confused, and they with no computer link to access.

"A guardian spirit," he explained.

"What—we have a haunted ship?" Chakotay looked ready to burst out laughing.

"Herakles Alexikakos—Herakles the averter of evil," Kateryn muttered. "And your name, Alexandros..."

"Means 'protector of men,' yes. A good name for a king. Or a daimon."

Tuvok turned to Kateryn. "Captain—what are we going to do with him now?"

Kateryn considered Alexandros for a long time; he met her eyes steadily and watched as she drew several conclusions at once. "You didn't tell me you could move through the ship inside the computer."

"No."

"You didn't intend to tell me, either."

"No."

She just nodded, swallowed. "You planned to take my ship didn't you? I should have known better than to resurrect Alexander the Great and then expect him to sit meekly on the holodeck."

He gave her a wry, bitter smile. "One day during my single visit to Athens, I walked down the long walls to Piraeus—the port. A ship from Egypt arrived even as my party did. They began to unload goods, and among those goods was a most amazing beast: a spotted lion."

"A leopard," Kateryn corrected absently.

"Yes, well. A leopard in a cage. He paced back and forth as the crane lifted the cage from ship to quay. When it set it down, it set it down too hard and the cage burst on one side. The leopard pushed apart the bars and attacked his captors. He had only been awaiting the chance."

Kateryn had paled. "I gave you back your life—!"

"You put me in a cage! You put me in a cage, on a leash, and asked me to dance to your pipe! But you are not Dionysos, for the leopard to bear you meekly through the forest."

"What happened to the leopard on the quay?" Chakotay wanted to know.

"What do you think?" Alexandros looked down at his fingers, remembering the day.

"They killed him."

"Of course."

"And that's what you assume we'll do to you?" Kateryn asked.

Alexandros glanced at the Vulcan. "It is the _logical_ thing to do," he said. "Turn off my program."

He said it calmly. He had died once before.


	7. VII

Janeway felt as if someone had jerked out a platform from beneath her. First Tuvok, now Alexandros.

But he's right, she scolded herself. She had put him in a cage. Was it so surprising that a man like him might resent it?

Don't be ridiculous!, the other half of her mind—the scientist in her—argued. He's a PROGRAM, a holographic image. To resurrect and cage the real Alexandros...yes, that would have been unethical in the extreme. But a holographic image? A computer synthesis of 500 years of scholarship and a recording from the Guardian? He was not a real man.

Isn't he? HE thinks he's real; who are you to say he isn't? God? She had created the program, but when had her creation got away from her? Did she really want to play god now and "punish" him for his disobedience? Would she not resent a god who did the same to her?

She shook her head. Philosophy! That, too, was his fault. She had never much been one for philosophy. Alexandros, though, engaged in philosophic debates with a rare passion.

But—program or "daimon"—she had a problem. As Tuvok had so succinctly put it...what was she going to do with him now? This ship could not stand two captains, or even a captain and a strategos. Chakotay she had been able to ask to step down. But Alexander the Great? He did not know the meaning of the word 'submission'.

"Why did you reveal your presence, a few minutes ago?" she asked him now. That was one niggling detail that bothered her. 'Anikeitos' yes: the undefeated. But he had surrendered himself. He had answered all their questions so forthrightly just now because he knew his bluff was called.

She held his eyes; watched the thoughts flicker behind them. Such extraordinary eyes: fierce or melting or a little wild, as he chose to make them. But they were most frightening like they were at this moment: no drama mask at all, simply himself, restless, missing nothing, shocking intellect behind shocking blue. A polymath. A genius. And a little mad with it. Were true geniuses ever sane? She knew herself well above average, but she also knew she was no genius. And quite sane.

Sane enough to know he was right. They were going to have to turn him off.

"You had one chance," he said now, slowly. "As you said to me: one Kazon in front, four behind. Yet I could see your reluctance, your Starfleet caution. It kept you from the only and obvious choice. There was no shipping lane out there; they were setting up a trap for you. Part of you smelled it, I could tell. The commander in you smelled it. But the Starfleet in you had to wonder, 'But what if it is? What if they only want me to go around and I fight a battle that does not need to be fought?'"

He shifted his posture, drawing in the heavy brows to frown. "You cannot second-guess yourself, Kateryn. As I told Tuvok, tactics must come from instinct. For some, instinct is wrong—and all of us do make mistakes. But for you to have reached a point that you sit in the captain's chair, your instincts must be right most of the time. Yet, being alone in command in an unknown place—it freezes you here. I have seen it. Where before you acted on instinct and left the final decision with the man—or the woman—who commanded YOU, now you are all there is. You must decide. No Starfleet, no admirals above you. You are basilea out here." Queen. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

"Yes." And she did; God help her, she did. "It's an enormous responsibility."

"It is." His mouth turned up in a wry smile. "But I don't suppose you would be willing to give that responsibility to me? I did carry it once before for 13 years."

He was teasing her—but only partly. She felt the anger flare. "It's my ship, mister."

He laughed. "Yes, it does seem to be...basilea."

"Captain will do. As you said once, if one needs the title to be a king, or a queen..."

"...then one isn't. So you listened to me sometimes."

"I listened to you often, Alexandros. But you never answered my question. Why did you give yourself away? You could have remained inside the machine, stayed hidden, waited for us to surrender to the Kazon—then you'd have had your shot at my ship."

"Surrender? You would have surrendered?" He seemed genuinely shocked. Then he shook his head. "I had assumed you would wait too long, then have to fight them all—with the result that we would be destroyed."

So that was it. Perfectly pragmatic. The knowledge still hurt; she had thought he might have done it because he did not want to see them taken by the Kazon. But this was Alexandros, the man who had ordered the death of Amyntas his own cousin, the death of Parmenion his best general, and who had dressed-down his own dearest friend in public. He did not let personal feelings interfere with doing what was necessary to survive. The truly great commanders dispensed with ethics if ethics interfered with success. Did she want that badly to be 'great'?

"That's all?" she said now. "It was expedient?"

"Not entirely," he replied. "After all, making my presence known has killed me as surely as a Kazon weapon blowing apart this ship. But it did not leave the rest of you dead. You are...my people... after a fashion. Not Macedonians, not Greeks, but you are my people. Human. I had to choose."

Ah. She should have seen that. To his mind, he had sacrificed himself for them. Leonidas at Thermopylae. "You really think I'm going to kill you?"

"Do you have a choice? I had no choice, with Philotas, with Parmenion, with Kallisthenes. I had no choice."

"But I do. I can turn off your program. I don't have to ERASE it."

He tilted his head. "And what do you intend to do with...me?"

"Take you back to the Federation with us. We have a holographic doctor on this ship serving quite well as our permanent physician— though no one ever thought of that before. There are problems with a hologram but we're working them out. Who's to say that, in 70 years when we get back to the Alpha Quadrant, Starfleet might not consider commissioning a holographic crew? They'll need a holographic captain. I can't think of a better one. You always were more explorer than warrior—to push just a little further, see what's beyond the next hill...that's what Starfleet captains are made of, Alexandros. But you'll have to promise not to start any wars just to give you something to do." She grinned.

He smiled back faintly. "I never start wars if the other side surrenders. And if I do start them, I never lose them."

She burst out laughing. "God, I can hardly wait to see the Romulans have to deal with YOU."

"Delusions of natural superiority meets overweening arrogance?" he asked.

"You said it, not me."

"I've never had any illusions about myself. But I never lie in my boasting. I've DONE everything I've said I have." He glanced around at the people around them, listening. "I have one request, before you turn me off."

"What is it?"

"I wish to see Hephaistion. If you resurrected me, you can resurrect him. I want to speak Macedonian with someone before you put me in...suspended animation. You can put us both there, and bring us out together."

***

They had brought him back to the holodeck inside her PADD; Tuvok had protested against letting him go back on his own. The Vulcan did not quite trust Alexandros. Wise, Alexandros thought. He might make a decent security chief after all, if Kateryn could kick him outside his logic now and then.

They materialized him back inside the room. It was no longer a grid; he had created a program for himself of his home. During his life, he had never returned to Macedonia once he had left it. Here, he had felt a need for the familiar countryside: the mountains on the noose of the horizon and the fields with their wild red poppies. Instead of creating Pella, he had created Mieza where he had studied with Aristoteles—perhaps the only time in his life when he had been allowed to be a boy, not a prince...the place he had met Hephaistion.

Before Kateryn started the program that would call up his friend, Alexandros called her away from Tuvok and Chakotay. "I wish to speak with you a moment." She glanced at Tuvok, but went with him several feet away. She knew now that he was not entirely safe. But he would do her no harm. She had been right on the bridge; he COULD have let them surrender to the Kazon, then taken Voyager. It had never entered his head because, had he done so, they would likely have died. She might have started as his unwitting captor, but she had become his friend. Besides, the idea of an entire ship of his own, with his own crew, to go exploring.... It was intoxicating enough that he would agree to be held in stasis until they reached the Federation and he could convince Starfleet to give him that ship. He was very good at convincing people, at making them want what he wanted. It went along with wearing the diadem. And who knew? Kateryn might need him again before their return: he was their daimon, their guiding spirit, the ghost in the machine. Alexandros Alexikakos. Or Alexikazon, perhaps.

"What is it?" she asked him.

He nodded back at the two waiting by the holodeck arch. "Them—you have your own Hephaistion and Krateros; the one is 'philokaterina' the other 'philobasilea': Friend of Kateryn and Friend of the Captain. You can trust Tuvok with the honor of your position; the Indian, you can trust with your life. Yet try to...keep them from each other's throats. I don't think you need to worry that they will draw swords on one another, but they will never LIKE one another. They like you too well; it creates jealousy."

She nodded thoughtfully. "It never occurred to me before, but I think you're right. Tuvok and I have been together four, almost five years now. His judgment isn't always logical where I'm concerned. I found that out."

"Yes. It is his strength, and his weakness—like Hephaistion. Chakotay is more reliable in that respect because he does not love you so well yet. He will honor you as captain, but may not always support you, if he disagrees. There is too much of the captain left in him. You can trust that in a different way. And he is competent himself, to command—like Krateros. They will balance each other, if you use them so. Now, I have one last thing to tell you—something perhaps you should have seen from the start."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "More revelations about how you planned to take my ship? I'm not sure I want to hear them. Sometimes ignorance is bliss."

He chuckled. "No, this concerns the entire idea of 'interviewing' me. Why did you do it?"

"What? I told you—it was a joke of Paris'. It just wouldn't go away."

"Why do you think your Paris suggested me?"

"I assume because you were his childhood hero."

He smiled and nodded. "Yes, exactly. But if it had been, say, your Vulcan. Would HE have suggested that you 'interview Alexander'?"

"Probably not." She was beginning to understand; he could see it dawn in her eyes. "He'd probably have told me to interview Surak."

"And what of your young Kim? Would he have suggested me, or someone from his history? What of others who are not even human? B'Elanna. Would she have chosen a Terran or a Klingon? And little Kes—what Ocampan might she have named?"

"Their heroes."

He nodded. "Had you asked ME, I would have told you 'interview Akhilleus'." Achilles. She smiled at that.

"Everyone has his or her own hero."

"Exactly—and you need to find out which ones your crew honors, then become those heroes. You are THEIR commander, you belong to them. Thus, you must find a mask to wear and present yourself as they need you to be. Be what you would seem, not who you are—so Aristoteles taught me. And he was not wrong in ALL things. For me, the choice was easy to make. We all admired Akhilleus. For you, it will be harder; your crew does not share one great history, one ILIAD, one hero. You will have to 'interview' all of them. Not literally, of course. It wasn't me you needed to interview in the first place. It was your crew. Learn to know them—their hopes and dreams, their heroes. Then learn from those heroes and construct your own mask of command."

She nodded. "You earned your name, Alexandros."

He tilted his head: a quizzical look.

"Magnus," she explained. "Latin word or not, you _are_ Alexander Magnus."

He snorted. The Romans! How insulting, to be remembered best by a name given him by Romans!

"We are ready, captain," Tuvok said to Janeway as she rejoined her two officers by the holodeck arch.

She nodded. "Proceed."

Tuvok punched in the new program, then his finger moved to hover over the one that would shut down both programs. Janeway turned to watch. On the grass beside the hologram of Alexander, another began to materialize: a taller man and more handsome, like a piece of Greek sculpture magically animated, a male Galatea. The new figure shook his head, looking bewildered. The first words out of his mouth made Janeway smile. "Aristoteles was wrong!"

Alexandros began to laugh, then launched himself at his friend. Hephaistion caught him in his arms.

"Freeze program," said Janeway.

The figures froze.

"Store."

END

"The exceptional are both shown to and hidden from the mass of humankind, revealed by artifice, presented by theater.... In no exceptional human being will it be stronger than in the [woman] who must carry forward others to the risk of their lives. What they know of [her] must be what they hope and require. What they should not know of [her] must be concealed at all cost. The leader of men in warfare can show [herself] to [her] followers only through a mask, a mask that [she] must make for [herself], but a mask made in such a form as will mark [her] to men of [her] time and place as the leader they want and need...the mask of command."   
\--John Keegan   
THE MASK OF COMMAND   
(Viking, 1987) p. 11   
[gender modification mine]


End file.
